


It started in the drizzle

by Darke_Eco_Freak



Category: Jak and Daxter
Genre: Blood and Gore, Hand Jobs, Knifeplay, M/M, Minor Character Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-29
Updated: 2015-10-29
Packaged: 2018-04-28 17:02:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,183
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5098403
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Darke_Eco_Freak/pseuds/Darke_Eco_Freak
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In a world where the Precursors weren't the only otherworldy creatures a-creeping and crawling. In a world where Jak never existed but Haven city did. Torn was still Captain of the guard, until he was betrayed and left to rot. Torn was still the stubborn hardass and still the man willing to lie in the muck and mud so the other guy could scramble over him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	It started in the drizzle

**Author's Note:**

> I'm always thankful that we met, you make me smile every day so congratulations on another year of skilful death evasion! May you never grow less or your art less raunchy. For one third of m OT3, the effervescent madamutzsar

"We're not leaving until  _everyone_  gets outta there," Torn snarled, fingers immediately flying up to trace the scar on his neck, the one that unsettled everyone else and served as sombre reminder. The scar was long, nearly splitting him from ear to ear, and it was a dull rusty red, one that showed against his skin but never much. It almost looked like someone had taken a red hot piece of wire and laid it on his skin until it cooled. Anyone seeing it knew he'd been to hell and was back to tell the tale, they knew there was nothing left on this earth that could threaten him and it made him one dangerous son of a bitch.

"What do we care about a handful of KG bastards? We could save their fucking leader and they would still try to kill us!" Mogg argued but his heart wasn't in it. Everyone knew that while the Shadow was the 'leader' of the Underground, their figure head to rally around, Torn was the man in charge. He was an ex-KG, the only one who'd come back from the Dead Town assault, he'd looked death in the eye and death had fucking flinched. There was no arguing with him or changing his mind once the decision was made, he would  _fight_  for his choices, had  ** _killed_**  for them.

"Ey, if the boss man thinks it's the right thing to do, then we should fuck off and listen to him," Jinx interrupted before Mogg could get shanked. Torn rolled his eyes, Mogg and Grimm and Jinx, Krew's demo boys and his entourage as they searched the sewers for the lost statue of Mar, were about as smart as they came which was to say not much. According to Krew, the statue should have the Ruby Key to the underport clutched in its hand and if they managed to find it, then Krew would make some choicer weapons available to the Underground at a cheaper price.

There'd been a cave in though, when Grimm tripped a KG security laser and a squadron got deployed to check it out. The two groups had fired at each other, a grenade had been thrown and everyone had scrambled for cover when the roof started falling down around their heads. Torn had gotten a nice good look at those tattoos and armour patches before everything went to shit though, he knew exactly who'd been sent down here and he wasn't about to let his little cousin die because of him. Erol deserved better than a nasty little death in a dank sewer, he deserved to die better than a damn rat at least.

"You two, circle back around to the entrance, check out the situation and meet me back at the Hip Hog. Jinx and me are going in after 'em," he explained, hefting his vulcan fury higher on his shoulder and starting off at a trot. He was used to having his orders followed, he didn't even need to look back to make sure the two idiots had gone to do what he'd told them or that Jinx was jogging after him. He was Torn and he was the badass in charge, everyone did what he said or they ended up…gone.

The list of people who'd crossed him and well survived wasn't the best word but it was the only one he had. So the list of people who'd crossed him and  _survived_  was nonexistent, they'd go missing, turn up alive but not, they would be broken, and it was never Torn to blame. Well, in a cosmic sense it was his fault, he'd decided to get involved with those people and put them in harm's way but he'd never touched a hair on their heads, he'd never needed to.

"You know these slubs, don't you boss man," Jinx muttered, keeping pace with him easy as they navigated the cave-in, guns at the ready for the metal heads they'd yet to encounter. Torn knew they wouldn't run into any, not even one little hopper because he'd been down here before, he'd cleaned them all out and they'd found a reason to never come back. Sometimes even top predators had even prey instinct enough to avoid the one hunter above them, even if they had to have those instincts beat into their thick skulls over and over again.

"I owe them and that's all you need to know," Torn grunted as they ducked under a rusted pipe and kept going. He had no idea why Erol's squad had been sent to check this out, they were the elites, they shouldn't have been used unless it was a confirmed metal incursion. But then, who knew how many people Erol had pissed off this week and how high up they were, fuck he might've pissed off Praxis' daughter, Ashelin. The bitch was nearly as bad as her old man and had gotten worse since her little girl toy got stolen away by Precursors knew what.

"All you need to know. All you need know. All you know," his words echoed back to him, losing logic and tone as they bounced between the slimy walls and distant ceiling and pools of stagnant water. Torn knew that it would continue, rising to thunderous booms, vibrations shaking his very bones until he snapped, until he started screaming and shouting and stopped ignoring it.

"All I know of you. You're all of mine," it sang mockingly, a deep laughter threading behind the gruff voice. Torn picked a point just in front of them just out of sight, he stared at it as they ventured deeper in the collapsed sewer system; climbing over broken ceiling sections and huge sewage pipes. And if Torn's ears felt as though they were bleeding from how blood shakingly loud and high pitched the voice had gone, and if Torn's bones felt as though they were grating against each other from how sub-vocally deep the voice roared but he wasn't dead yet. He wasn't dead and he had shit o do before left this flooded shit hole.

"Not dead yet no, but soon, so soon," the voice howled and the laughter fell all around him like a physical thing, almost heavy enough to drag him down and pin him to the floor like the ceiling hadn't.

* * *

"There's some scruffy ass kid asking around for you out there," Tess reported, jerking a thumb over her shoulder at the hideout's door while trying to dry herself without taking off any clothes. The downpour had shown up literally out of the blue, they were at the peak of the dry season when temperatures got so high people dropped dead in the shade. Yet dark grey clouds had rolled in, casting an ominous shade and bringing a chill wind with it, in less than a half hour the city was drowning from the deluge that didn't look like it'd be letting up any time this month.

"Anyone else see him? Where'd you tell him to wait?" and Torn wasn't panicked, he  _wasn't_. He was  _concerned_ , completely different, panicked would mean he was worried about what would happen to himself, concerned was more him worrying about other people. He was always concerned these days, and for good reason if the 'scruffy ass kid' had walked all the way here in the  ** _rain_**  to find him.

"He's waiting in second decoy across from us...who is he?" Tess asked after careful consideration, she'd never seen him this frazzled, not even that time they'd broken into the palace to blow up all that ammo and the security tank had broken through the barrier to get at them. He gave her a patented 'you don't wanna know' tilt of the head, complete with the eyes that refused to meet hers and a grimace pasted on his face.

"Alright then, I'll just uh, tell everyone you're out. I guess we can handle everything until you get back," she muttered, looking down at the intricate attack and defence tactics he'd been drawing up before she'd walked in. Neither of them acknowledged the silent 'if you get back' that had become the standard. None of the Underground members held any illusions about their living to old age and pension anymore, fuck; some of them didn't even expect to see thirty-five pass them by.

"I'll sort that out when I get back," he explained, nodding at the papers, and it was the closest he'd ever get to a goodbye even if he was just as expendable as the rest of them.  _He wasn't expendable, not really, and he always came back, always got sent back_. The alleyway was colder than the claustrophobic, hole in the wall hideout, noisier too and seemed far more cut off from the rest of the world. The thunderous crash of rain on the galvanize roofs and blinding droplets made it easy to believe there wasn't a world beyond this little dead end alley, that no one but him existed.

"I could make that real, get rid of all the other annoyances," the voice offered, cutting through the noise of the rain and right to his bones it felt like. Torn grit his teeth and refused to show any reaction, sometimes something as small as a twitch was enough to set it off and he wanted to avoid doing that so close to living, breathing people.

"What do you want?" he asked, sharp, succinct, much easier to be gruff and to the point, easier to pretend he wasn't straining to touch, to kiss and reaffirm just how real this was. Torn was...stupid, he'd been stupid, moronic, downright insane to accept this thing's offer in the first place but he'd continued in that suicidal streak for years now. Oh, not because he was waging what amounted to a one man war against a tyrant or beating back metal head incursions at every turn. No, Torn was stupidest for falling in love with the thing that was most likely going to kill him in a gory mess of blood and guts.

"Can't I come see you anymore? I thought it was part of our  _deal_."

Don't turn around, don't give in, it's just what  ** _it_**  wants. Torn always swore to himself that he wouldn't do it, he wouldn't break, not this time, and he always lost, always gave in and damned his wretched soul that much more. The thing was male this time, it looked like a human male, younger than Torn with a lither frame and softer face that was bordering on feminine. If Torn had seen someone like this walking down the street, he would've recruited him as a runner, to take messages back and forth and the kid would never have to worry about the guards accosting someone so harmless looking.

He was blond too, a bleached beach blond with deep blue eyes and a cocky attitude but as always, the thing couldn't hide everything about itself. The very roots of that dirty blond were green but only Torn would noticed, or look, and every half second this scruffy little kid would smirk and the barest whisper of a growl would stalk its way around the alley. Even a blind and deaf man would've sensed something off about this kid and Torn's skin was practically crawling with the need to run,  _get away_.

There was never a chance of him getting far though, it would catch him before he took five steps. It would slam him against a wall, hold him there with one hand and snarl in his face with a mouth too full of sharp, pointed teeth. He'd tried twice before and ended up bloody both times, half dead and laughing,  _begging_  for more because he was a sick fuck and this thing sure did know how to pick its victims.

"How'd you get this far into the city? You told me you needed dead water to sustain you inside the walls," Torn grunted, forcing himself to break eye contact and focussed on a grey wall until his vision started to blur. The thing made a gurgling noise and ducked in front of him, instantly contrite though the smirk was still in place, Torn doubted that smirk ever left his face for long.

"And what does the rain come from? Besides my...brother owed me a favour and I collected. I get bored and you're such fun," it, well  ** _he_**  for the time being, purred, nuzzling Torn's neck, pressing cold lips to the scar there. A spike of pleasure-pain flashed down his spine, straight to his dick right as another crack of thunder tore the air apart. The flash of lightening following  _after_ , and in the space of blackness that came with it, the blond was shirtless and dripping in the rain.

"You have such fun toys," he continued, fingers colder than the already freezing rain trailing up Torn's arms, over his sleeves but tracing the tattoos perfectly. The former-KG didn't need eyes on the back of his head to know the currently-blond thing had unsheathed his knife, his throwing knife, the one he'd used to hack off a man's head once. The blunt edge of the blade pressed against the back of his neck, colder than ice in the rain and the thing's grip, supernaturally cold but Torn didn't flinch.

"Sick fuck," he growled as the metal glided along his skin and down his collar bone until the sharp edge was pressed over the scar across his throat. The scar that would never heal, Samos had wasted more green eco on it than either of them were willing to admit and still it hadn't faded, it had regressed once until he nearly bled out on the bunk they were using as medical table. Samos had tied a clean cloth around his neck as tightly as he could and ran off to find an old needle and knife doctor.

The thing had come then too, growling and snarling and roaring fit to shake the heavens apart while he ripped the make shift bandage off and licked up all the split blood. Torn had been delirious with pain then too but not so far gone as to miss the thing's warning, its threat.

" _Me and mine do not heal, corruption and chaos cannot heal, do not try. If the foolsome healer tries again, I will scatter his remains to the four corners_."

"No sicker than you, my deluded, delusion shadow boy," the blond murmured, voice vibrating on a frequency so low it penetrated Torn's bones like liquid warmth, slowing his heart rate and washing over like a wave of pleasure. The blade slipped across his his neck so fast that if anyone else had tried it Torn would be dead. Instead he was left alive while the knife hilt was pressed into his hand, encouraging hands curling his fingers around it and bringing it up to the blond's neck. The point pressed into the skin just above his collar bone, making a dip in the flushed tan but stopped short of cutting.

"We can't do this out here," Torn hissed even as he fought to keep the knife from pricking the skin, biting the inside of his cheek and focussing on the pain instead.

"No one will know," the blond promised, stepping into the knife but not cutting himself, he always left that to Torn. The illusion of control, the thing'd learned that a few centuries back when the other humans it fucked around with became much happier when they thought they had a choice. When humans thought they were in charge of their own destiny, they were much more pliant and easy to manipulate because they thought they were doing it all themselves. The only person to blame when shit hit the fan more like.

"Please," the thing begged, voice so heartbreakingly needy and desperate it wasn't so much of a choice as fulfilling a compulsion. He gripped the knife properly and made a shallow slash along the thing's Adam's apple, the trickle of too dark, bordering on black blood quickly washed away by the rain that was falling fiercer than ever.

The groan of pleasure that the thing made though, it was better than touching the blond, better than completing the compulsion, hearing the creature make that noise was like a shot of pure adrenaline and dopamine straight to his brain. His heart sputtered and skipped a beat, going from near inactive to trying to break out of his ribcage in 0.5 seconds, and Torn knew from experience that it would only get worse.

"You're a shit incubus," he gasped when a hand palmed his crotch, practiced fingers undoing both the zipper and the buckles around his hips that attached his shirt to his pants. He sucked in a sharp breath when cold, cold, cold fingers caressed his hip bones, tracing the bite marks there and pressing themselves to the hand shaped bruises. At this rate none of them would heal but some part of him, the masochistic, insane, completely gone on love part, didn't want them too.

It wasn't enough that he had the scar, he wanted more proof, he wanted to be covered with evidence that something otherworldly had singled him out, had chosen him.  _Had loved him_. And continued to do so. He was a greedy fucker like that.

"Mmm, I would be better if I actually  _was_  an incubus. Incubi are much better at these human distractions than me," the blond explained as contritely as if he  _wasn't_  sending Torn's blood pressure up from the fantastic handjob he was giving. He didn't say a word though, just enjoyed the feel of the hand on his prick, slick with rain water and precome and kept the knife pressed to the blond's skin.

Every so often he would drag it across the slick flesh, watch as dark blood welled to the surface, beading like over ripe Christmas berries before mixing with the rain and washing away. There were dozens of little cuts, barely longer than his pinkie and almost too shallow to show red. Some of them were barely more than angry, raised lines of scarlet against bronze flesh, taunt over bone and almost black in the lightning flashes.

"Give me a reason to come back to you," the blond snarled, the grip on Torn's dick tightening until it hurt and the pleasure started to ebb. In the next snap of lightning, the blond was the bleached skinned, black horned creature Torn had sold his soul too out in the mud and muck. The devil, a demon, a god? It had never come out and said it, never given Torn more than the need to know information:

1\. He'd sold his soul for vengeance. At the second Praxis' dead body fell at Torn's feet by his hand, it would be free to take his soul, devour it, hoard it, destroy it. That part wasn't clear and it wasn't need to know.

2\. The creature had given Torn surreal gifts, to never tire, to never falter, to never die. It was how Torn had become the Underground's top member, how he cleared section after section of metal head infested area, how he took back Dead Town and stuck blow after blow against the Baron.

3\. Torn's living body was  ** _its_**  to do with as it pleased. To rip apart and to break down and fuck, its to mark and kiss and caress.

"Give your soul worth," it roared, teeth glinting in whatever light made it through the rain, black tongue flickering against his cheek. It was so cold it burn where it touched, made Torn want to flinch away but he didn't, he never did.

He pressed hard with the knife instead, shoved it against the flesh,  _into_  the flesh, and yanked hard. The gash bled immediately, the too dark liquid mixing with the rain water and turning a much more normal red. And like everything else about the creature, it was burning cold where it landed on Torn's bare flesh.

He knew that it would mark his skin for weeks after, the dark purple blotch would take hours of scrubbing every day to ever come off and he'd yet to test what would happen if he just left it. If it would stay, cover the other tattoos on his skin and mark him for slaughter as vibrantly as the scar did.

True to its word, it always was, the hand on his cock struck up the same unwavering tempo. When lightning filled the alley again, the blond kid was back and the tongue shoved into his mouth was warmer. Never cool enough to mistake for human, as though Torn was ever capable of that, but warm enough to not burn the inside of his mouth.

He didn't stop either though, he brought the knife back up to the blond's chest and made a downward stroke, joining the two wounds and moaning into the thing's mouth when more cold fire blood washed over his hand. They both kept working on each other, the blond working Torn's dick raw while he mimicked with his tongue what they'd done on several occasions, when they'd had more time available.

In return, Torn never took the blade away from the expanse of skin in front of him, pressed against him. When the blond plastered himself against his body, when it was hard to catch his breath or keep himself upright, he never let the tempered metal leave the blond's chest. Unconsciously slicing and slashing his way across in a familiar pattern, the only one his tattered and shattered mind could handle at the moment.

And when he came shuddering and gasping for breath, but never leaning his weight against the thing that had just teased his orgasm from him, the last stroke went long. He breathed deeply through his nose, trying to catch himself while his heart tried to gallop out of his chest and into the blond's hands.

"Not bad  _Torn_ ," and in that creature's mouth his name sounded like a curse, something to be spat, something that caused insurmountable pain. But then he'd carved his name into that creature's skin, hacked and slashed in his euphoria, willingly giving the last thing he had left to call his own.

"Fuck  _off_ ," he breathed, wiping off the knife on his shirt and generally working on not passing out right there. Every time, every single fucking time that thing fucked him, worked him up and wrung every last tingling drop of pleasure out of him like a rag, he would feel the effects immediately after. They would hit him like a twelve hundred pound rhino metal, knocking the last bit of sense out of him and advising him to go down and not got up for at least a week.

"If only I had the time," the blond mocked, cocking one brown and winking at him. The smirk was in place again, too sharp and unnatural on his stolen face. Thunder crashed and rolled, echoing through the alley, or maybe just in Torn's head, before the lightning struck. Torn didn't bother closing his eyes, the afterimage of the creature, black horns, black eyes, claws, fangs, the real deal, impressed itself on his eyelids.

And he stood out there, staring up at the rain clouds and thinking of nothing as ice water washed over him, cleaning most of the blood away but leaving the feeling of taint. And he stayed out there, wondering how he'd sold soul to a creature he had no name for and how much it was worth. Enough for an entire city? Enough for the whole world?

* * *

The attack had failed and the Baron had left them to die. Torn was the last of his squadron, the last one left alive, with broken bones and crushed hopes he'd still managed to drag himself to the new security door. He'd banged on it, screamed and shouted until his throat was sore and his voice little more than a squeak. He refused to die out here, tossed aside like garbage by the city he'd given everything to, sacrificed  ** _everything_**  for.

The carrion birds had descended on the dead as soon as the doors had been locked, picking and tearing at the cold flesh, squabbling amongst each other for the choicest pieces. There was one hopping its way towards him now, hop, stop, head tilt, half hop. If even the carrion birds were willing to come for him, then there was no hope, why was he still trying?

The day had bled into night the same way his men had bled into the ground, the grey storm clouds on the horizon had finally found their way over the city, blotting out the faint crescent moon and dim green sun. And the rain had started just as they all realized how hopeless it was, from crashing smashing thunder and lightning to a haze of drizzle. The ground was muddy, sticky with blood and gore and water, Torn had nearly sunk into the mud on his agonizing crawl over here and couldn't move another inch.

"I'm not going to die out here, I refuse to die," he muttered to himself, raising a fist to hit the door again, the soft clank was muffled by the steady rain. Saying it though, repeating it over and over again to himself wasn't making it any truer, it wasn't unlocking the security door or lifting him up and back into the city. He was going to die in the stinking mud like a worm, like an insect, and then the carrion birds were going to feast on his cold carcass.

He wasn't going to see the city rise up, he wasn't going to help Tess get her little house in the country, he wasn't going to be the best man at Erol's wedding. Torn was going to kick the fucking bucket out here and no one would know until it was too late.

"Praxis will pay, he will burn," Torn growled, anger giving him a voice again, buoying him up with all viciousness and heat of hellfire. Buoying him up with all the vengeance of the men left out here to be slaughtered like livestock, to be sacrificed in the name of glorious Haven city.

"Praxis will die!" he howled, slamming his fists on the ground, splashing mud in his face and scaring off the carrion bird. The thing went squawking into the night, setting off all its fellows and raising an almighty screeching, what must the city people think? When the bird caws melded into the screams of people, sounded so like the cries and pleas and begging he'd heard today that he had to look around to make sure the bodies were really dead.

Heh, what if they weren't? What if this was what happened to their dead, they lay in the mud and piss for hours, long enough for their blood to cool and hearts to stop, long enough to be picked half clean by the animals. Then, when they were truly left for dead, they rose again, vengeful spirits demanding retribution, hateful of all who left them behind. Torn could almost see one of the half submerged bodies twitching, see it dragging its way onto land and closer to him.

"Nononono," he whined, shoving himself against the door, pushing his battered body to its limits, blinking away the blackness at the edge of his vision. If he collapsed here, if he gave up then those things would get him, they would drag him down into the water, they would suck him down into the cold blackness and hold him there until he drowned. Until he was nothing more than another lost soul stuck in a decaying, forced to seek out the justice he would never get.

"Please, fucking please nooo," he moaned, hissing in pain when his hand slipped and sent him crashing down, his face to the doors and back to the water without a visual of the dead-not-dead things. He didn't want to die this way, he didn't want to die out here, Precursors help him.

"Did you mean it?" The voice was harsh, cutting through the panicked heartbeat thumping away in his ears and through the hysteria he'd worked himself into. He couldn't see the person speaking, the thing speaking, not with his head pressed into the ground and him too weak to move it.

"Were your words truth?" the thing asked, and he could feel the eyes on him, goosebumps raising as the squelching sound of someone walking through mud came closer and closer and closer until they stopped just before stepping on him. Torn could hear soft panting, the sort of noise animals made after running around for hours and finally stopping for a rest, but longer, slower, more controlled. Precursors he wished he could lift his head enough to see what the fuck was talking to him.

"I speak with you. Answer," the person growled, and Torn's breath turned to ice in his chest, the same hysterical fear starting to rise again. Oh god, was he mad? Had he lost his mind while he was out here, while he was the lone survivor in a field of bodies? Was he  _dead_? Maybe this was hell, having to relive the worst moments of his life for the rest of eternity. And the person speaking to him was the devil. Ha! Well it looked like Mir was right when he said Torn would go to hell!

"Yes," he rasped, the word forcing his jaw apart to make itself heard, practically ripping itself out of his throat and taking everything he had left with it. There was no controlling it but somehow it was still the truth. Torn would do anything to have his revenge on Praxis, even make a deal with the devil himself.

"And what would you give for this?" the devil demanded, probably crouching since cool fingers were tracing the marks on Torn's face, barely touching but enough to make him want to die, or die again.

"Anything," he wheezed, squeezing his eyes closed, not caring what was behind him anymore because he was as good as dead now. The devil himself had come to taunt him in this own personal hell of his, there was no salvation, no hope.

"Good," the devil purred, clearly pleased. And Torn wouldn't have thought he could feel any more pain, he thought his brain had already processed as much as it could when his femur was shattered, when his back was broken, when he spat up black-red chunks of Precursors' knew what but there was much the devil could do. Like slash his throat open with claws that most certainly hadn't been there before. Like laugh while he coughed and choked on his own damn blood.

Like lean down and lap at his life's blood, like whisper strange things to him as he slowly, agonizingly, lost consciousness...like kiss the last of his breath from his body.


End file.
